Replay, Refrain
by Lawliet's Angel
Summary: All he really needs is to be alive again in someone's eyes, but before that, House must convince Cuddy that he's not just one of her personal delusions. Post-Wilson death. Mostly amusing banter. HUDDY


**This is a ficlet; a dialogue-centric, banter-filled mini story that follows up on House after Wilson's death. It's just a little something I'll be working on to ward off my writer's block. Hope you like it.**

* * *

Nobody bothered to tell her until she got the invitation to the funeral.

After resigning as Dean of Medicine at PPTH, Lisa Cuddy had moved a few cities away, to take a job as an endocrinologist at a partnering hospital. Initially, the move was temporary; it was only supposed to last as long as it took to repair her living room. But when she'd opened that solemn gray envelope and seen "Gregory House" and "deceased" on the cardstock, she knew she'd never be able to return to that house. There was too much of him remaining there.

She told herself that he deserved it, that he had it coming, that she shouldn't worry about it because she had a new home, a new job, a new life to worry about. Those things were definitely, inarguably true. She'd tossed the envelope in the trash, closed her eyes and pressed two fingers to her temple, as if attempting to bring all memories of him to the surface, only to be dispersed, rippled away into nothingness like a rock on pond water.

So, naturally, nearly half a year after House's death, Lisa Cuddy is understandably confused when she wakes up to pour herself a glass of water sees, in the normally empty kitchen, the doctor himself, leaning casually against her granite counter. Cuddy drops her glass.

House waves sheepishly as her mouth falls agape. "I know what you're thinking," he says, "and no, you're not having an incredibly sexy hallucination. Though I get why you'd make that mis-"

"No," says Cuddy definitively. House wrinkles his nose.

"No?" he questions, feigning confusion. "That's not really a response. I would have accepted, 'Housey, you've got some 'splainin' to do!' or anything from 'The Honeymooners.'"

"No," she says again, this time louder. "No, you're dead. I will not match wits with an illusion." She drops her hands to her side and turns to leave.

"Careful what you say!" calls House to her back. "You know what they say about a doctor who can't keep a house plant alive; imagine what they'll say about one who can't even tell reality from their own-"

Cuddy whirls around, looking cross. "Were your hallucinations of Amber this snarky?"

House smirks. "Well, she was my own subconscious, so, uh, duh. But if you're convinced I'm a figment of your imagination, then you've obviously got a pretty nasty masochistic streak."

Her eyes grow large for a second. She adopts a worried expression as she pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and sinks down onto it. She steeples her hands in front of her lips and glances up at House.

"I should have gone to your funeral."

"Here it comes," he says theatrically. "Wish I had some popcorn, but this will have to do." He grabs an apple from a bowl of fruit on the counter and takes a dramatic bite.

Cuddy stares down to the floor. "This is punishment, isn't it? Some cosmic joke because I didn't go to pay last respects to a man who never respected me? You've already totaled half my house, why can't you just leave me-"

"No," says House.

Cuddy stops abruptly and glances incredulously at him.

"See? Not so charming when it happens to you, is it?" Cuddy's eyes flash, anger and unshed tears pooling in them. House feels a stab of guilt and withdraws slightly. "Look, what I meant is, I did respect you. I still do. You're one of the few people I consider my equal."

Cuddy blinks. "Now I'm _sure_ that this is an illusion." She stands up from her chair and turns towards the door to her bedroom.

"Cuddy," he says, more like a plea than he wanted it to sound. "Lisa."

She stops, but doesn't turn to look at him.

"Nine o' clock tomorrow night, I'll be here. I'll prove you're not hallucinating. Here." He sets the bitten apple on the counter. "A promise."

She starts to walk away.

"Wait," he calls, and this time she does turn to face him. Her face is a mix of frustration and panic. "Did you…really not go to my funeral?"

Cuddy sees a hint of pain run across his face, and for some reason this calms her, although it's gone as soon as it comes.

"Not that I care," he says, shrugging cattily. "I wasn't there either, because, y'know, not dead and stuff."

Unable to stop a steadily growing grin, she turns around. "Goodnight H-"

Her grin falls instantly. The parting words came too easily, too naturally. She takes a few painkillers for a quickly developing headache before drifting off into, thankfully, dreamless sleep.

* * *

When she wakes up, House is gone, but the apple is not. Interrupting its smooth red surface is a deep bite, exactly like the one House had taken out of her façade.


End file.
